


Per Angusta Ad Augusta (Through Difficulties to Honors)

by reginahalliwell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s08e04 "The Last of the Starks", F/M, Fluff and Smut, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 22:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginahalliwell/pseuds/reginahalliwell
Summary: Set during "Game of Thrones" season 8 episode 4, "The Last of the Starks" beginning during the feasting scene and following Brienne and Jaime up to her room. Uses verbatim dialogue from show where appropriate, and expands upon their interactions there.





	Per Angusta Ad Augusta (Through Difficulties to Honors)

She never took herself as one to play drinking games. She had even tried to dissuade her squire from finding respite on what could have been the last night of his existence. Yet Brienne now found herself in the peculiar position of playing a drinking game with Podrick and the Lannister brothers. 

The war was won, the sun had risen, and she was changed. 

It was a night of fighting for her life—for life itself—raging against death and darkness and cold. But while they may have been victorious, winter was still here, and the wine warmed her just enough.

In the day since the Long Night, being the Maid of Tarth seemed insignificant. Seven hells, being a knight of the Seven Kingdoms felt insignificant. They had survived the battle, but now Brienne wanted to live. 

So she drank, and she laughed, and she played.

“You’ve lost count of your conquests,” Jaime challenged, staring Podrick down playfully. 

Podrick chuckled and downed some wine.

On Podrick’s turn he shot back at Jaime, “You hate your golden hand.”

Jaime not-so-reluctantly drank as well, shrugging. 

Jaime turned to Tyrion. “You secretly wish you could ride one of the dragons,” he said. 

Tyrion burst out laughing, almost falling off the wooden bench he was precariously balanced on. “No, no,” he protested, “You couldn’t pay me enough gold in the world to even consider it.” So Jaime drank.

Dwarf jokes notwithstanding, Tyrion was still cackling from the guess and from the wine that warmed his spirits as much as his body. 

The game went on, and Brienne let herself enjoy more wine than she had in recent memory – or any memory, she supposed. She had not much let herself indulge. Even at Renly’s court, even at Bitterbridge, when she had joined his Rainbow Guard, she hadn’t really let herself celebrate. 

But they had fought the dead, and lived. And now she would drink. Jaime’s reasoning was sound, and they deserved to enjoy themselves. Even if they took to war again tomorrow, for tonight, they would simply be thankful to be alive.

When Tyrion changed the tone of the game so abruptly, Brienne’s senses were dulled enough for her to respond indignantly rather than embarrassedly, for which she was sorely thankful. She had no need to make a fool of herself in front of her sworn lady, her squire, or in front of a hall of men, some of whom had once mocked her with courtship. 

Instead, she rose slowly. “I have to piss,” her measured voice spoke, matching the blank expression of her face. She would give these men no reason to laugh at her, even in jest rather than malice. The Maid of Tarth she was in name, and they could forever wonder about the rest. 

Tormund Giantsbane, perhaps drunker than any man had ever possibly been, wandered over just as she moved to leave. Seven hells, the man was not subtle when sober, but in this state, his affections were unavoidable and overt, making it awkward to be in his presence.

Brienne excused herself, leaving Jaime to deal with the oaf. She walked up to her room, still astonished that so much of the castle remained intact. 

When they had been in battle, everything around her seemed to be collapsing, and the cold night made everything more immediate. The crushing of rocks and snapping of wood from Winterfell’s demolition sounded in her ears just as often as the growls and groans of combatants. 

The flashback to the battle sobered her quickly, and brought her back to her senses as she made her way into the small quarters she had been allocated as the Lady of Winterfell’s personal guard. 

She did relieve herself before heading to her chamber. The toilet was quite close, being that she was near the lady’s rooms, and she found respite in her solitude quick enough. The quiet of the upper halls brought Brienne’s own mind into sharp relief.

Removing her armor, Brienne focused on clearing the thoughts that plagued her daily. Her dirty blond companion’s scraggly face would not leave her tonight. The carefree smile upon his face, his laugh during the game, the knowledge that he was still alive. The knowledge that they were both still alive. She couldn’t shake it.

It was the thought of him that Brienne held close at night when she could not rid her mind of the faces of the dead, and worse. But Brienne did not have hope that it would be anything more than the stolen moments where Jaime showed his true self to her, and she to him. When he was more than the Kingslayer and she more than a freak. Those moments, though far-between and hard-won, were more than enough. If she didn’t let herself hope.

A knock. 

Brienne’s thoughts took her from the fireplace to the door, though Brienne was sure she there were no castle servants up here just now. Everyone was feasting, and rightly so. She was sure Podrick would be celebrating in his own way as well. 

In her doorway stood Jaime Lannister, two goblets and a wine decanter held against his chest. 

There was a brief pause where neither of them spoke, the silence rapidly shifting the tone into one of uncertainty. Why would Jaime Lannister be at her bedroom door? 

“You didn’t drink,” he said, breaking the stillness of their mutual uncertainty. He rushed in, not allowing her the decency of asking him why he was there or inviting him inside.

“I didn’t drink?” Brienne asked, hoping he didn’t mean what she thought he meant. She closed the door behind him. 

Jaime confirmed her suspicions. “In the game.”

“I drank,” Brienne lied, hoping this would all just go away. He knew all this, of course. He had saved her virtue more than once, and her being a maid now should hardly be a surprise. But that didn’t mean she wanted to discuss it, and certainly not with Jaime Lannister. 

Brienne hoped her face read more confused than uncomfortable. “In the game,” Jaime repeated. “This is Dornish,” he explained, pouring her a healthy amount of wine into the first of the two goblets he had brought up. 

He handed it to her. 

“This is not the game. This is only drinking,” she protested.

Jaime shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he conceded, not pretending otherwise. Drinking or playing, Brienne was aware that Jaime was watching to see what she would do. There was something odd, something different about this whole situation. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, couldn’t put words to. Since Jaime had come to Winterfell, something had changed between them, and these sincere, genuine conversations sometimes terrified her.

So she drank, meeting his eyes. The drinking was enough of an admission. She was still a maid. After all these years, all the suitors her father had procured, all the would-be rapers, all of Tormund Giantsbane’s advances, and yet here she was. Ser Brienne, the Maid of Tarth. 

That seemed to be what Jaime was waiting for, as he turned away to start shrugging off his leather sur-coat. “You keep it warm enough in here,” he said as he struggled out of the tight clothing. The golden hand caught on the sleeve, but Brienne just watched, confused, as he disrobed in front of her. 

She responded, “It’s the first thing I learnt when I came to the North.” She continued to watch as he removed his coat and placed it on her bed. “Keep your fire going. Every time you leave the room, put more wood on.” It was easier to respond to the question he had asked than to his actions. She daren’t challenge what she suspected might be pretense. 

“That’s very diligent. Very responsible,” Jaime responded, and that was it. Brienne couldn’t abide this strange dynamic anymore. She had called him out on it when he first came to Winterfell, and she was doing so again. Where was their banter? The name calling, the not-so-subtle digs at one another? This courtesy and civility was so not them.

“Oh, piss off!” Brienne shot back at him, finally reacting visibly to whatever the hells was happening here. She couldn’t remain nonchalant any longer. 

Jaime let the response roll right off him. Instead of responding to her outburst, he continued, “You know the first thing I learned in the North?” He paused. “I hate the fucking North.”

“It grows on you,” she replied, still uncertain where this conversation was headed.

“I don’t want things growing on me,” Jaime griped as he turned toward the fireplace to pour himself some wine. “How about Tormund Giantsbane?” Jaime asked, looking toward Brienne with the most peculiar look on his face. “Has he grown on you?” 

Brienne looked at him, still in disbelief that Jaime Lannister was in her chamber, door closed, seemingly trying to have an actual conversation with her that (presumably) wouldn’t end with either of them smacking the other. 

“He was very sad when you left,” Jaime continued, nervously awaiting her response. Brienne had never been interested in the wildling, though his advances were something of a compliment, she supposed. From a culture that valued people like her, she could see how someone like Tormund would see a good match, but Brienne had never even considered his suit. She couldn’t, not when her every thought was dominated by Jaime Lannister. 

“You sound quite jealous,” Brienne observed, her eyes wide and disbelieving. 

Rather than dodge the accusation, Jaime took a breath and agreed. “I do, don’t I?”

A pause. 

Just enough silence to let his accession sink in. Jaime Lannister was jealous. Jealous of a wildling who couldn’t even keep the wine in his drinking horn. 

This was the man she had pined over for years, though Brienne hadn’t dared to even dream the impossible. 

And then, just like that, Jaime broke the tension again, moving away from the fireplace. “It’s bloody hot in here.” He took them both right back out of that frightening moment where the truth was all laid bare, and focused on trying – and failing – to untie his tunic one-handed. It wasn’t the first time he had struggled to undress post-amputation, and they had helped each other dress and undress often enough over the years. 

She watched him fumble for a few moments, still unable to figure out what the hell Jaime was thinking, before sighing, “Oh, move aside,” swatting his hand away, and deftly untying his tunic herself. 

She worked the laces with her nimble fingers, focusing on undoing a knot. 

Jaime’s hand moved up to her own neck, began to undo her ties. “What are you doing?” Brienne asked, dumbfounded. She paused her own movements, finally seeing through the pretense of Jaime’s disrobing. 

“I’m taking your shirt off.” Jaime let the statement sit there, heavy in the air, and offered no further explanation. 

This was no game, and he could not play with her heart like this. She knew she did not contain her clear admiration and desire for this man well, but she never imagined it might be reciprocated in earnest. 

Pre-Long Night Brienne might have dissented, might have said it wasn’t proper, that they weren’t promised, that she was not his whore. Post-Long Night Brienne didn’t suppose she cared. 

But if Jaime couldn’t even remove his own shirt, he could hardly help with hers, and Brienne wasn’t one to rely on others. She pushed his hand away gently, their eye contact making her feel more open and vulnerable than if she were already naked. She untied the center laces on her tunic, opening the shirt slightly from neck to navel, before turning back to Jaime’s clothing. 

She pulled the ends of his tunic out of his breeches, pausing after every motion as though she expected him to laugh and reveal his cruel joke at any moment. Her pining for him was seemingly obvious to everyone, and it seemed impossible that her feelings be requited. She put her bare hands under his shirt, feeling his warm torso underneath, and smoothly lifted the shirt up and over his head. Brienne helped to get the solid gold hand out of the tight sleeve, fully removing the tunic and tossing it aside. 

Another silent pause, as though both of them were afraid the tiniest of mistakes could ruin this moment. 

Brienne once again reached for her own clothing, not losing eye contact with Jaime as she pulled the cotton over each shoulder, revealing deep bruises and lacerations from the battle. It was hardly a surprise to Jaime, whose own body was marred by scabbing-over cuts and scrapes, whose beautiful tanned body was also purpled by deep bruises. 

They had seen each other naked before. The Harrenhal baths was a turning point in their relationship in more ways than one. There, Brienne had stood straight up, revealing her entire body to him out of the water, and she had not changed much from then. Her breasts were still small, her stature still towering and thick, and her face still so harsh compared to the daintier features of most women. 

What had he asked her then, that time when he could have died of infection or drowning or even shame, held in her naked bosom in the Harrenhal baths? By what right does the wolf judge the lion? 

There were no lions any more, no wolves, no sapphires. There were two people who had witnessed the worst of each other yet only chose to see the best. 

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” Jaime admitted. He hadn’t slept with anyone who wasn’t his twin sister before, truth be told. He might be experienced sexually, but Jaime was as new to this as Brienne was. 

In a measured, calm tone, Brienne responded, “I’ve never slept with anyone before.” The admission was unnecessary, but she said it anyway. 

“Then you have to drink,” Jaime insisted, though the last thing he wanted was for her to turn away from him now. “Those are the rules.”

Brienne was exasperated, and started to protest, “I told you—” but before she could finish her thought, Jaime was standing on his tiptoes, leaning into her half-naked form, and crushing his mouth to hers. 

The leap from mutual respect and trust to sexual attraction happened just as abruptly and unassumingly as had their shift from enemies to begrudging companions. Jaime’s hand was around her waist, pulling him to her, holding their bodies against each other. He didn’t mind this kind of warmth. 

He loved that he had to lean up to kiss her, that she could—and did—best him in battle, that he could be the best version of himself with her. She made him better. He wasn’t sure if he did the same. 

As he grasped her to him, the gold of his right hand warmed against her skin, but it felt so foreign in comparison to his fingers roaming, gently traversing her bruised torso. “Take this off,” she suggested, pulling his right hand away from her slightly and gesturing to the gold appendage. 

“Help me?” he asked, and she assented, gently unlatching and loosening the prosthetic before setting it gently next to the wine decanter. Jaime’s hand reached over to remove the vestiges of fabric that protected his stump, setting those too aside before making eye contact with her once again. 

“Brienne, I—” he started, but this time it was she who cut him off, reaching to grasp his neck and pull his face back to meet her own. He had a bruised collarbone, and she avoided jerking him too quickly, but as much as Brienne expected this first time might hurt her simply because of her inexperience, she knew they were both still battle-sore and took care with him.

Jaime reached down to untie his breeches, something he had at least mastered so he could accomplish it himself and not rely on anyone else for something so intimate. He shucked his boots and leggings before pushing down the fabric covering his bottom half. 

Though Brienne had seen him naked at Harrenhal, and more recently by mere chance, his body had been covered in muck and filth then. Now, though he was bruised and beaten, she could see the shape of his torso, the muscles of his arms and abdomen speaking to his fitness. 

There was scarcely time to admire him, though, as Jaime’s movements seamlessly shifted from removing his own clothing to guiding her backwards toward her bedstead. The furs covering the firm mattress were soft and lush, and Jaime briefly wondered how many bears and wolves had been hunted by Stark men to make the castle’s residents warm and comfortable this long winter. 

Brienne sat ungracefully on the bed, still clearly shocked by this turn of events. Her eyes were bright and clear, her golden hair mussed and mouth slightly flushed from their embraces. Jaime knelt down and managed to leverage off her right boot, then her left. Brienne slid her own trousers off, shifting her weight to move them over her hips and legs as Jaime helped peel them off of her. 

Brienne’s smallclothes were all that were left, but Jaime helped Brienne divest herself of these too, with little fuss. Her blonde hair was curled thickly down there, quite differently than what he imagined many Southern ladies’ nether regions looked like. Cersei had always kept this area shaved quite close, since her adulthood at least. He remembered how the two of them developed together, exploring and pleasuring each other’s changing bodies. It was odd, he thought, to know the body of his twin as well as his own, but Jaime hoped to learn Brienne’s just as well. 

Afraid that any speech would break the spell, Brienne and Jaime helped each other under the furs, choosing to let their bodies speak for them better than words ever could. 

They kissed again, and Brienne finally allowed herself to explore his body as he was hers. With her one hand she roamed the planes of his chest, each touch of her fingers sparking feeling. Jaime’s muscles trembled under her explorations, and she held his eyes for a moment to check that this was all right. Jaime’s own hand ran down her side, under her breast, over her ribcage, down to stroke her hipbone with his now-calloused fingers. The once-Golden Lion was now as rough and ragged as any cutthroat.

Jaime’s fingers moved between them to gently explore the most private part of her, where no hand save her own had ever dared to venture. He caressed her, moving his fingers this way and that, expertly arousing feelings in her that she had rarely allowed to take root. Brienne refused to think about where he had learned such skills, not allowing the thought of her into Brienne’s bed.

Brienne’s soft sighs of pleasure crept out as their mouths sloppily pursued each other, her gasps of shallow breath breaking their connection occasionally and Jaime’s hand pleasured her. Brienne was distracted by this movement, but not enough to ignore explorations of her own. She allowed herself to hold his hips, to grasp desperately when his movements abruptly tensed her muscles. 

He had grown quite large in the process of their ministrations, the evidence of which pressed between the two of them insistently. Jaime slid down her body unassumingly, bracing himself against her body and his stump as he moved further under the fur coverlet. 

Brienne voiced a protest with a gasp as his mouth replaced where his hand had formerly been. Jaime lifted his head, pulling up the covers with a grin. “Surely you have heard the cries of women from bedchambers, Brienne. Did you not think this would be enjoyable?”

“I know how it works,” Brienne argued defensively. “I just didn’t think you would—”

“Well think again, Ser. We are not simply rutting like animals. Or do you not want me to…” Jaime drifted off, looking down again at where his tongue desired to dwell. 

Brienne’s face was red, likely more from desire than embarrassment, though at this particular moment he would bet it was even odds. 

“There’s no shame in a man giving his lady pleasure,” Jaime offered. He had called her his lady. Brienne had never thought to hear such a thing.

“No, I suppose there’s no shame in anything anymore,” Brienne responded. She nodded, allowing him to return to his endeavor. 

A sound shockingly similar to a squeal escaped Brienne’s throat, and beneath the covers Jaime laughed lightly. Not at her, but with her. He was thankful that this woman who had endured so much could be so free with him, could trust him to pleasure her, could allow him into her bed.

“Jaime, Jaime,” Brienne gasped out, her pleasure coming in unceasing waves as his tongue and fingers worked in tandem. 

“Brienne,” Jaime responded, his fingers wet against her hip as he pulled himself back up to her. The height difference between them was no less noticeable when they were laying intertwined with one another. Brienne’s breaths were shallow and she lay limp against him, his body somewhat over her and somewhat beside her. 

“We can stop here and leave your virtue intact,” Jaime suggested when her eyes were less glassy and she could focus on his voice. 

“What does virtue matter now?” she answered. “I am Ser Brienne, and what I do in my bed is no business of anyone else’s, so long as I honor my lady.” She was safe enough here at Winterfell, where her honor was beyond reproach. 

“Well said,” Jaime responded, though in his head he remembered how the mere sight of Oathkeeper on Brienne’s belt was enough for some to call her the Kingslayer’s whore. Now she really would be, and Brienne’s honest face would be unable to contest it. 

Jaime kissed her again, accepting her answer though he prayed this would not ruin anything. He gently grasped himself, balancing on his right elbow as he positioned them most comfortably. “You are certain, then?” he asked, but the tears in her eyes and that silly smile were answer enough. 

Her pleasure made his entrance smooth and easy, and she was still trembling in the aftershocks of his earlier actions. The feel of him inside her brought back her earlier pleasure and she sighed happily in satisfaction. “It’s alright?” he asked, and Brienne nodded dumbly, reaching out to steady him against her. 

“Will there be blood?” she asked, as though Jaime Lannister should know the workings of maidens’ bodies. 

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I doubt it.”

And then he moved, shifting his weight back and forth as her hips moved in tandem, alternately grasping him to pull him closer or push him away. 

He gasped at the feel of her gripping him, the sensation so welcome and different from—no, he would not compare them. 

It took Brienne a few moments to get up the courage to pursue her own pleasure unabashedly, but soon she was moving against Jaime, grappling with him in this entirely new and yet familiar way as they each sought release. 

They were both gasping, groaning, sighing, the sounds of their mouths and their connected bodies mingling in a cacophony of pleasure. Their movements stoked the fire higher and higher, until the heat finally overtook Brienne once again, causing her to shake and cry out. Jaime held her as close as he could, his own motions instinctual at this point as he finally joined her in release.

Their mouths parted, and both exhaled noisily and shakily as their heartbeats slowly calmed. Jaime was still inside her, afraid that once they separated, he would never be this close to her again. He didn’t think he could bear to be away from her after this moment. Brienne, too, wanted this closeness to last forever.

He moved them together onto their sides, his hand stroking her back as he leaned his forehead on her chin. In this position, she was still quite high on the pillow compared to him, but he didn’t mind a bit. Her skin was sweaty and soft, her muscles limp and loose. 

“You were right,” Brienne began, and Jaime moved his head up to look her in the eyes.

“What?” he narrowed his gaze. 

“It is fucking hot in here.”

At her choice of words, and the exasperated expression on her face, Jaime let out a laugh, nuzzling her closer. “Fucking hot is right,” he agreed. “Seems like we’ve found another way to keep warm up North.” 

Brienne smiled against him, kissing his wavy hair. 

“Will you take moon tea?” Jaime queried.

“I suppose I should,” Brienne responded after thinking a moment. “It wouldn’t really do to get with child during a war. Not to mention I’d hate to bring a bastard into the world, with the way they get treated.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a bastard,” Jaime offered. 

Brienne looked at him, not processing his suggestion.

“I imagine Tyrion wouldn’t mind if I abandoned the Lannister birthright and allowed him Casterly Rock’s lordship. I think I could grow to not hate the North, with the right company.”

“I thought you didn’t want things growing on you,” she argued, repeating his earlier words. 

“I would make an exception for you, Ser Brienne,” he said pointedly. She still couldn’t believe she was a knight. A knight, and no longer a maid. 

“You are welcome to stay, in Winterfell, and in my bed. But as to the rest, ask me again when this is all over. When there is peace.”

“Fair enough, my lady knight. Until peace comes, we will dream of spring and keep each other warm through the winter.”

They needed no more words than that. Both had made oaths to each other with their bodies, with their eyes, and now there was only contentment. 

Brienne nodded, pulling Jaime close, as though she could not believe he was truly there, and slept more soundly than she ever had. They had come through the Long Night together, their trials turned to joy.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Jaime/Brienne fic, and I tried to keep them in character as much as possible. I welcome constructive criticism and positive feedback, and depending on how able I am to get them out of my head, I may have to write a fix-it for their last scene in this episode. Thanks for reading!


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